


(when the moon hits your eye) Like a Big Pizza Lie

by jezziejay



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Ensemble Cast, Epic Silliness, M/M, holiday fic, rom com
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 05:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10780437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezziejay/pseuds/jezziejay
Summary: In which Patrick and Jonny meet in Rome, and nobody really understands anything.





	(when the moon hits your eye) Like a Big Pizza Lie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoffeeKristin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeKristin/gifts).



> Inspired by the Jamie and Aurelia storyline from Love Actually.
> 
> Thanks to [allthebros](http://allthebros.tumblr.com/) for running this fest, and for having unlimited patience. And huge thanks to [saudades](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saudades) and [homo_pink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink) for being amazing betas and cheerleaders. Any mistakes are entirely my own.
> 
> Italics used when English is spoken and written, except during the epilogue.
> 
> Written with Kristin very much in mind, as she started all of this when we were talking about Rome, and she suggested that Jonny would be a salty waiter reluctantly charmed by a persistent Kaner.
> 
> And I said - hold my beer.

Jonny arrives for his shift at the coffee shop just in time, wrapping his apron around his waist as he hip checks the kitchen door open. 

“Good morning, Gianni,” Roberto says, appearing from behind the oven, sweaty hair in disarray. “How are you?”

“Stressed,” Jonny whines. “Why do you open so early?”

“Gianni,” Roberto protests, his hands reaching for the sky in dramatic dismay. “I opened four hours ago.”

“I woke up four minutes ago,” Jonny grumbles, reaching for some coffee filters, and ducking between the trays of hot pastries that Roberto is way too haphazard about stacking. Everything smells of chocolate and butter and other good things that Jonny never lets himself eat. 

“Young people spending half their lives in bed,” Roberto despairs. “There is only one good reason to spend all day in bed.” He holds up an emphatic finger. “One.”

“Eleven am is not all day,” Jonny retorts. “And I did have a good reason for staying in bed. I was tired.” He realises, belatedly, that he hasn’t helped himself at all when Roberto grins savagely. “Ugh,” Jonny groans. “Do you want me to take these ricciarelli out front?”

Roberto suddenly looks less gleeful. “Those are bruttimabuoni,” he says, borderline offended.

“Same difference,” Jonny says, just to be a dick.

“Get out of my kitchen,” Roberto demands. “Stupid American boy.”

“Canadian,” Jonny corrects. 

“Same difference,” Roberto shouts after him.

Jonny walks out to the store, smiling when he’s greeted with the regular chorus of _Gianni!_ that always reminds him of watching Cheers reruns with his dad. He likes this job, likes this little shop, likes that it’s far enough off the beaten track to stave away the tourist hordes, likes that he gets to use his Italian as he serves the locals who have been coming here since it opened. It’s been a long time since he felt self-conscious when speaking - not to brag - his third language.

The usual mid-morning crew is scattered around the room. Valentina and Fredo are by the window, bickering loudly over a game of chess. Sal is hunched over his laptop, fingers hovering above the keyboard, typically oblivious to the adoring glances Annetta is giving him from her own table just six feet away. The only other occupied table is taken by Paolo and Ricci, brothers who retired from bus tour trade, and seem content to live out their lives sipping strong coffee while arguing over conspiracy theories.

There’s just one person at the counter, a man of dubious age, and even more dubious style.

“New haircut, Cristiano?” Jonny asks as he unloads the tray of pastries onto refrigerated shelves. “Sharp.” It’s more a commentary than a compliment, given that the parting has an inch of hair growing on the wrong side of the razor line.

“For the ladies, Gianni.”

Cristiano has a lot of things going on for the ladies, such as a shiny grey suit that is always pressed to within an inch of its life, a gold bracelet that hangs garishly from a skinny wrist, and a stench of cologne that makes Jonny’s nose run. The only problem with Cristiano’s ‘for the ladies’ schtick is that there never seem to be any ladies around him to appreciate it.

“Gianni,” Valentina calls. “More coffee, please. And maybe one of those bruttimabuoni. I’ll need to keep up my strength if I am to beat the best cheater in Rome today.”

“Pfft,” Fredo scoffs, puffing his chest out. “You are not playing yourself. The day you beat me without cheating will be -”

“Every day,” Valentina says, snorting rudely. “I only let you win when I feel sorry for you, or when I don’t want to listen to you crying like a newborn infant.”

“You know who cries like a newborn infant? Your sister -”

“Don’t bring my sister into this. Not when _your_ sister -”

It alarmed Jonny, the first couple of times he’d seen Valentina and Fredo go at each other, but it didn’t take long to learn that it was all volume and little heat. Apparently, they’d been arguing about chess all their married lives. The most serious fight was back in 1968 and had lasted four days. It had, Fredo will admit, been a bit of a rough start to their honeymoon.

“Did you see last night’s episode of _Squali Nel Mare Empio_ , Gianni?” Ricci asks when Jonny begins to travel around with the coffee pot. “It was the season finale. Papa Dino was just about to marry Felicia and Luigi, when the door bursts open, and who is standing there but Cardinal Soffio. Only it’s not him, because he peels his face off, revealing that he is, indeed, the real Papa Dino.”

“I saw that coming,” Valentina huffs. “Ever since the chemical lab explosion in the papal quarters that left the Papa Dino so disfigured that not even his own mother, Sister Anna-Maria, could recognise him. It was too unbelievable.”

Personally, Jonny thinks credibility was shown the door with the face peeling and the chemical lab in the pope’s private rooms. But he’s wise enough not to mention any of that. They take this show very seriously here at Roberto’s, gathering to discuss themes and topics every Tuesday morning, like some sort of weird book club. About a demented soap opera. “You still sending in your storylines, Valentina?” 

She scoffs in disgust. “Every week, Gianni. But they just send me back the same response. ‘Thank you for your interest in our show. We currently have a team of talented writers who work together to create complex and diverse scripts for your enjoyment. At this time, we are not looking to recruit additional staff.’” 

“‘Go away, crazy lady, before we block your IP address,’” Fredo adds.

“Shut up, stupid man, before I start poisoning your food.”

“Couldn’t make it taste any worse,” Fredo huffs.

“But did you see how beautiful Felicia was?” Annetta blurts, wistfully gazing at Sal. “How Luigi looked at her like she was his princess.”

“Hold on, isn’t she his daughter?” Jonny asks, frowning. He’s never seen a single episode of the show, but he’s absorbed bits and pieces through osmosis.

“Not anymore,” Paolo says. “Now she is his half twin sister.”

“There are half twin siblings?”

“Same mother, different fathers,” Valentina explains.

“Happened to my cat before,” Sal adds without looking up from his screen.

“I feel like I should have guessed that,” Paolo says, almost ruefully. “When the parcel arrived from the King of Finland on their birthday.”

“Wait,” Jonny says, literally scratching his head. “Finland has a monarchy?”

“A secret one,” Ricci says, nodding.

“Wow,” Jonny says, meaning it, but he doesn’t get to ask anymore because the door opens to let in a guy he’s never seen before. All eyes fall on the newcomer as he tugs off his grey hard hat, revealing a shock of staticky yellow curls unlikely to be native to Rome. He blinks a little at the sudden attention and wipes his hands on his high-visibility vest, setting free a small cloud of dust. 

Jonny puts the coffee pot back on the burner and collects his notebook as the guy finds himself a table. “Good morning. Are you ready to order?” 

The guy sighs while glaring at his own dirty fingernails. “ _You speak English_?” he asks with an American accent. Jonny can feel his teeth set. He’s long done with English-speaking tourists assuming that the rest of the world needs to speak their language, just in case they decide to drop by one day.

Jonny hasn’t answered by the time the American finishes scanning the plastic menu. He looks up then, blinks at Jonny, like Jonny’s the one being rude here. His eyes are big and blue, sharp with annoyance. “ _Speako English_?” he says obnoxiously.

Jonny bites the inside of his cheek. He’s pretty sure he’s not allowed to bar anyone from the premises. 

“ _Fine_ ,” the American grumbles, as if this is another unbearable sufferance to be endured. “ _One latte and one of these._ ” He points to a picture of Roberto’s famous sfogliatella.

“Si,” Jonny nods politely and leaves for the kitchen where he steams the milk until it’s barely warm and bypasses the tray of oven fresh sfogliatella in favour of yesterday’s biscotti amaro – cookies loaded with coffee and almonds, so bitter that only Roberto’s oldest and most loyal clientele ever ask for them.

“Where are you going with that, Gianni?” Roberto asks as Jonny makes his way back out front.

“To the trash,” Jonny answers. _Speako English_. Speako _fucking_ English. Too damned lazy to even learn _Parla Inglese_. What a fucking -

“ _I didn’t order this_ ,” the American says when it’s put in front of him. He pokes suspiciously at the biscuit and looks up at Jonny. “ _That wasn’t the picture I pointed to_.”

Jonny stares back at him innocently.

“ _I didn’t_ …” the guy begins. “ _Oh, nevermind_.” Jonny turns away, but he can hear spluttering and choking, followed by some hacking coughs. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” the guy gasps and swigs at his coffee. “ _Ah, man, this is almost cold. Shit. Fuck this day anyway_.”

Jonny smirks down at the menus he’s pretending to organise, the little flare of satisfaction soothing his temper. Ten minutes later, the guy leaves with a scowl in Jonny’s direction. 

Jonny clears his table and scoffs at the exact change that was left behind. Knowing the idiot actually paid for what he got makes up for the lack of tip.

“Pretty boy,” Valentina says mildly when Jonny comes back from the kitchen.

“Pretty asshole,” Jonny snorts.

“Americano?”

“Si.”

“And what? We no speak Americano?”

“ _We no want him to come back_ ,” Jonny mutters to himself in English.

 

*****

 

He comes back anyway, the following morning, seemingly undeterred by Jonny’s rudeness and bad service. “ _Just going to wash my hands_ ,” he says after putting his phone and hat down on the same table he sat at yesterday, like he’s claiming it as his own space.

“You do know that there are thousands of coffee shops in Rome, right?” Jonny says, continuing to fold napkins in half.

“ _See,_ ” the guy says, holding up his dusty hands. “ _Going to wash them, okay? I’ll be back in a minute, and then you can screw up my order again_.”

“I mean,” Jonny continues, shrugging. “I feel it would almost be selfish of us to keep your custom all to ourselves.” 

“ _Can you keep an eye on my phone? The one I’m pointing to. That phone there, not some other phone that looks and tastes nothing like that phone_.”

“I could write you a rec list of good places. How would you like me to organise them? Geographically? Alphabetically?”

The guy narrows his eyes suspiciously. “ _That’s a very long way of saying yes. But, whatever. Where’s the restroom, the uh, toilet._ ”

“Go back out the door you just came through, turn left, or right, your choice, and keep going for about three miles. Or five. Or ten.”

“ _What?_ ” the guy says impatiently. “ _Look, toilet. Where is the toilet?_ ” He says it like a British person might, no softening of the consonants. Toy-lit.

Jonny takes a breath and points to the door across from the kitchen.

“ _Right, thanks. Grazie._ ”

“Hurry back,” Jonny drawls, walking over to the table to set it. Or haphazardly throw cutlery onto it. 

“Hey, Gianni,” Valentine says suddenly. “This boy is a mystery, no?”

Jonny frowns at her. “A mystery?”

“Si. He works in construction. Do you not think that is strange?”

“No,” Jonny answers. “There are roadworks going on behind the plaza. He probably works there.”

“But how would an American, who speaks no Italian, get a job in Italian construction?”

“I don’t know,” Jonny says, shrugging. “But in the grand scheme of things, it’s hardly a cardinal led rebellion to overthrow the pope because he’s hiding the devil’s baby in the Sistine Chapel.”

“Ack,” Valentina says, waving her hands about. “Look at his stuff.”

“Really missing your soap opera, huh?”

“His stuff, Gianni. Look at his stuff!”

Jonny rolls his eyes, but decides to indulge her a little. He glances quickly at the still closed door of the restroom, and flips over the helmet to look inside. “Oh my god,” he whispers, setting it down as it was, and taking a step back. 

“What?” everybody gasps, wide-eyed and chin hands.

“Well,” Jonny says slowly. “I don’t know how to say this. But.”

“What?”

“On the inside of his hat are some letters and numbers. I’ve seen them before, and I know what they mean. But I never thought. I can’t -” Jonny stops like he can’t bear to go on.

“WHAT?”

Jonny swallows and croaks out, “His hat size is fifteen and a half inches.”

The collective outrage can probably be heard in the restroom, everyone hissing their displeasure at Jonny, except for Cristiano who nods wisely and says, “Yes, Americans have big heads.”

“Gianni,” Valentina sighs, like Jonny is the most crushing disappointment in her life.

“It’s a hat, Valentina. Not a clue to crack the Da Vinci Code. What did you -” He stops, a little startled when the phone lights up and vibrates on the table. He looks down, and then quickly away, but not before he’s seen what’s on the screen.

**Dad** : _Patrick, you are breaking your mother’s heart. How could you be so selfish?_

“What does it say?” Fredo asks.

“I didn’t read it,” Jonny lies, crossing the shop’s floor and busying himself with some coffee beans. The American - Patrick - might be an asshole, but that doesn’t give Jonny free reign to violate his privacy.

“But you saw something,” Valentina presses, leaning across the table. “What did you see, Gianni?”

“Was it something terrible?” Paolo asks. 

“Did he kill someone?” Ricci wonders, a little too hopefully.

“I didn’t see anything,” Jonny insists, just as the hand-dryer blasts to life. 

The restroom door opens and Patrick comes back out to six pairs of eyes on him. He glances around slowly, and the whole scene grows decidedly suspect when everyone immediately looks away, like their hands or coffee cups or laps are suddenly fascinating.

“ _Okay_ ,” Patrick mutters, drawing it out. Oh...kaaaaay.

He walks to his table just as the phone chimes a reminder that there is an unread message waiting. Jonny glances up from under his lashes, watching as Patrick grips the back of the chair so hard that it pulls the colour from his hands. He’s deathly still as he reads what’s on the phone, his face a horrible sort of shocked. He doesn’t move until the door opens, and then he’s running out before it closes again.

“Sorry you can’t stay,” Jonny shouts after him. “Please feel free to call again and waste some more of my time.” He grabs his notepad and goes over to help the customers who got in just before Patrick got out. 

“Can you get me a highchair, Gianni?” Lotta asks, trying to lower her bags onto the floor without dropping her toddler son. 

“You want me to take him?” Jonny offers.

“Probably not,” Lotta sighs. “He’s feeling cranky today.” Lucca makes a liar of her by babbling cheerily, and Jonny knows that she’s just trying to spare his feelings. The kid pitches epic fits when anyone that isn’t his mother tries to hold him, but he’s happy enough to give Jonny a sticky high five.

“Here,” Jonny says, pulling the highchair up and relieving Lotta of some of her bags. 

“Thanks,” she says, shaking out her arms. “Cappuccino and a warm milk, please, Gianni. Small vanilla gelato, in a bowl. And what’s going on in here? Who was that boy that passed us?”

“He’s new,” Valentina says gleefully. “All we know is that he’s a mysterious American, and he just got some news on his phone that made him run away.”

“Oh?” Lotta says, turning curious eyes on Jonny. 

“Gianni knows more,” Valentina says with a shrug. “But he’s not sharing because he has a crush on the boy.”

“Or because he doesn’t care,” Jonny says, mostly to himself. “Or because whatever was on that phone is nobody’s business.”

“Gianni has a crush?” Lotta cries. “Ah, Gianni, this is great news, no? I worry about you, going home to your little room every night and sitting in front of your books until the sun almost rises again. You are too young to be so old. So serious, with your liquid food and your panpipes yoga and your same sad songs on your out of tune guitar.”

“Hey,” Jonny says, indignant. They’re not the same songs. He learned a third cord recently, and is making pretty decent headway through _Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door_.

“See?” Valentina beams. “We are just trying to bring a little joy and passion to your life, Gianni. Why do you fight the joy and -”

“She’s cheating again,” Jonny tells Fredo.

 

*****

 

Jonny lives next door to the coffee shop in another building owned by Roberto, a boutique type of place where old furnishings are part of the charm. He has a room overlooking the courtyard on the fifth floor, his own bathroom, and a big bed that he’s currently sulking on.

His life isn’t empty, far from it. His shift had ended at seven, and he’d hung around for an hour, helping Roberto to clean out the ovens in exchange for kitchen privileges that allowed him to whip up a cobb salad sans cheese, a raspberry smoothie, and a shake for the morning. He went for a walk that turned into a run as the crowds eased near the river. When he got home, he took a shower, and ate his dinner while sitting on the window-ledge, peering into Alessandro’s room to watch some soccer. He had no idea who was playing, but the blue guys won.

It’s already eleven, and Jonny still has big plans for the rest of this night. There’s a huge pile of laundry scattered around the room that he should gather up. Separate the darks and the whites, and have it ready to bring down to the washer-dryer in the shop’s basement that Roberto allows him to use. And then he’ll strum around on his guitar, try something new - _Leaving on a Jet Plane_ , maybe. He’ll skype Dan and Jase after midnight, and wait until one to try his parents. They should be home from work by then, and David will probably be around. He might watch a DVD on his laptop before he falls asleep, or maybe get through some of his prescribed reading list for the summer. He’s heard good things about _Il Cane di Terracotta_ , and he’s enjoyed Camilleri’s other -

Jonny grabs a pillow and pulls it over his head, squeezing tight. His life isn’t empty; it’s just duller than a great thaw. 

 

*****

 

The delivery truck has some sort of disaster this morning, which means that everything is behind schedule. By the time Jonny arrives at work, Roberto is pulling his hair out and demanding that Jonny whip the cream, fill the pastries, turn down the oven, load the dishwasher, get out to the store, get back here, _where do you think you’re going_?

“Gianni,” Valentina calls when Jonny makes a dash to the counter to drop off some cakes.

“Momento,” Jonny shouts back.

“Gianni,” Cristiano says, almost a plea.

“Momento,” Jonny snaps, jogging back to the kitchen. Jesus.

“ _Gianni_!”

Jonny’s head swerves to where that came from, sighing when he sees Patrick sitting in the same spot for the third day in a row.

“ _Service?_ ” he says, almost with a sneer.

“You’ll be last,” Jonny promises before going into the kitchen to be yelled at some more by Roberto. Ten minutes later, he’s back on the floor being yelled at by his customers.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” he huffs as he places jugs of cream and cubes of sugar on tables while waiting on the espresso machine to do its thing. He hands out cakes and forks, and froths milk for cappuccinos and lattes, and does his best to ignore the hum of complaining and the non-stop ringing of Patrick’s phone.

“The usual?” Jonny asks Annetta, stopping by her table.

“ _Are you serious?_ ” Patrick says, clicking his fingers. “ _Hello! I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes now. She just walked in._ ”

“You can sit there for another twenty as far as I’m concerned,” Jonny mutters. “And either answer that phone or shut it off. Nobody wants to hear anymore of your dumb ringtone.” 

“Oh,” Annetta says uncertainly. “What did he say? Was he here first? I can wait.”

Jonny shakes his head. “He’s insisting that I serve you now. He doesn’t mind waiting.”

“Isn’t that nice!” Annetta declares, beaming at Patrick. “Thank you.” Patrick blinks back at her and furrows his brow at Jonny, but he goes back to scowling quietly down at the table until Jonny arrives to take his order.

“ _Finally_.” 

“You really are the rudest person I’ve ever met in my life,” Jonny says, flipping his notebook open.

“ _I don’t even know what you are saying_ ,” Patrick grumbles. “ _I don’t speak Italian_.”

“You barely speak fucking English,” Jonny returns, smiling.

“ _Okay, whatever. Look, I’d like a latte, only hot this time. Hot. You know, piccante. And one of these_.” He takes a menu and points at the sfogliatella. “ _See, this one. I want this one. Not that… whatever the fuck that was the other day. This one_.” His finger jumps noisily on the plastic.

“Molto bene,” Jonny says politely.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Patrick says, and then a little softer, “Grazie.” 

It’s a small concession, a little indication that maybe this kid has some fucking manners, and Jonny rewards it by steaming the milk until it’s hot. He serves up the coffee alongside another biscotti amaro.

Patrick eyes the pastry. “ _Seriously? Are you doing this on purpose?_ ” he asks, but he’s already dunking it petulantly into his coffee. “ _Fuck it_ ,” he says and chomps on the soggy mess. “ _This tastes like ass, just so you know_.”

Jonny does well not to roll his eyes. Patrick has to be around his own age, no more than twenty-one, and there’s something about him that you’d have to look twice to see. His hair is like the brash wrapping on a gift, hiding pretty eyes and a generous mouth. Jonny’s been to clubs where Patrick’s mouth would be very appreciated. Until he opened it to speak.

“ _What the fuck ever_ ,” he says. “ _I’m hungry_.”

“Not to mention charming. And apparently, deaf,” Jonny says, looking down at Patrick’s phone when it sings again. A picture of a chubby, bald guy is flashing across the screen. Patrick glowers at it, and then at Jonny.

“If you need anything else,” Jonny says in a helpful tone, shuffling away. “Please feel free to fuck off somewhere else and get it.”

“Who is calling him, Gianni?” Valentina asks.

Jonny pulls down a mountain of napkins that need folding. Now that he finally has a minute, he might try those swans that Noemi creates in seconds. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

“A lover, I think,” Ricci says. “Someone who has hurt him a great deal. See how he looks away, as if he can’t bear to see what is looking back at him.”

“Is there a picture?” Paolo asks. “Did you see? Is she very pretty, Gianni?”

“No,” Jonny says. 

“Ah,” Cristiano says. “That is why he’s sad. An ugly girlfriend would make any man sad.”

“You are a pig, Cristiano,” Annetta says hotly. “Love is not only about what is on the outside. It’s about what is in the heart and the mind -”

“And the brassiere and the panties,” Cristiano leers, because Annetta is right. He is a pig.

Annetta slams her cup down on the table. “You are the most insufferable, disgusting -”

“It’s his father,” Jonny says, derailing this before it gets out of hand. “That’s who’s calling him.”

“And he doesn’t answer his father,” Fredo spits. “He has no respect.”

“I’ve been saying,” Jonny shrugs.

“Maybe his father is making him marry the ugly woman,” Ricci suggests.

The door opens for Lotta and Lucca just then, and Jonny greets them enthusiastically, grateful to escape this conversation.

“ _Hey_ ,” Patrick says sullenly. “ _How come they get the VIP treatment?_ ”

“How come you won’t shut your face,” Jonny replies.

“Gianni,” Lotta scolds. “Why do you speak to your boy like this?”

“Because his boy’s father is forcing him into an arranged marriage with an ugly girl,” Paolo tells her.

“Oh, Gianni,” Lotta says, clasping her chest. “I’m so sorry.”

That’s it. 

IT.

Jonny tugs his apron off and throws it behind the counter. “I’m taking my break. My very long break. Possibly even my forever break.”

 

*****

 

It’s Groundhog Day the following morning. Patrick is sitting where he sits, ignoring his blaring phone and eating his cookie without complaint. He seems oblivious to his guest role in the conspiracy theories that are growing more and more bizarre. Like, bizarre enough for the plot writers of _Squali Nel Mare Empio_ to reject outright, on grounds of sheer ludicrousy.

“He is sad,” Ricci says. “Perhaps his father is a drug lord who has wronged other villains, and these people want to take this boy for revenge, but he escaped and is living undercover as a construction worker in Rome.”

“I think that was your father,” Valentina says. 

“My father made his money in figs,” Ricci cries.

“Your father made his money from what was hiding in the figs,” Valentina snorts.

Ricci throws down his cup, and Jonny wonders why Roberto doesn’t just serve all drinks from plastic tumblers. The breakage has to be eating into his profits. “I haven’t been this insulted since -”

“Since she said the same thing last week,” Paolo finishes. “What? He was my father, too.”

“Perhaps Ricci is right,” Fredo muses. “And the revenge the other villain seeks is not to harm the boy, but to take him as a son-in-law, so that he can finally get rid of the ugly daughter.”

“Pretty sure the other villain is coming out the wrong end of that deal,” Jonny mutters. “Not the mention, the poor daughter.”

Cristiano clicks his fingers. “Yes! The daughter who is flat in the front and the rear.”

“Pig!” Annetta shouts.

“Right,” Jonny says, crossing the floor before he can give it anymore thought. Because enough, just enough. He really can’t listen to anymore of this nonsense, and he’s had it up to here with the Chelsea Dagger ringtone. And the combination might just make his head implode. He picks up the ringing phone and presses the answer key before Patrick can even react.

“Speako,” he says sarcastically and throws the phone back to Patrick. He immediately regrets it when Patrick stares like Jonny’s just slapped him. Regrets it even more when he hears a desperate, tinny voice coming from two feet and five thousand miles away.

“ _Patrick? Pat? Hello? Are you there, son? Pat?_ ”

Jonny walks away before he does something else dumb. “No,” he says, wagging a finger threateningly at his captive audience. “No...updates. Jesus. Can’t any of you be...be...normal?”

“Like you?” Valentina smirks. Which is probably fair, given that Jonny is the one shouting and flapping his hands, and he’s also the one stomping across the floor and grabbing a pastry from the kitchen.

“Taking five,” he tells Roberto, and goes to the stairwell for some peace and gluttony.

It really is the wrong type of pastry, he thinks as he shoves it into his mouth. There’s flour and sugar and fresh cream, and none of those things ever did his stomach any favours. But it does wonders for his mood, and he’s feeling a little less nuts when he gets back to work in a completely silent shop.

“What?” he says, unnerved.

Valentina mimes rubbing at her eyes with closed fists while nodding over at Patrick.

Shit. Jonny takes a breath, and walks to Patrick’s table. “Okay, look,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“ _What?_ ” Patrick looks up and blinks red-rimmed eyes at him. “ _No. I don’t need anything else, thanks._ ” There are miserable, angry streaks blotching across his cheekbones.

“I’m sorry,” Jonny says.

“ _I’m good, thanks_ ,” Patrick says, standing to throw some money on the table. He grabs his hat and phone, and ducks by Jonny to get to the door.

Jonny feels helpless as he watches him leave. “This is your fault,” he says, pointing a finger around the shop. “You are all going to me make as crazy as you are.”

 

*****

 

Jonny gets stuck the following morning. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and Roberto will come looking for him sooner or later. Until then, there’s not really anything to be done except sit on the bags of laundry and send the _sooner_ out to the universe. While trying not to panic.

“Gianni,” Roberto shouts, bursting through the door. “You did it again.”

“It happened again,” Jonny corrects. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I think this elevator has an allergy to you,” Roberto continues, rattling the cage door. “I told you to stick to the stairs. You can’t break the stairs.”

“I had to get all this laundry down. And I didn’t break the elevator.”

“Well, I don’t see anyone else in there.”

“There isn’t room for anyone else in here,” Jonny snaps. There isn’t; the car is only one person wide and two people deep. It reminds Jonny of a coffin, which reminds him of the panic licking his stomach. “Do you think you can call the guy, and get -” He’s cut off by Roberto clapping his hands excitedly and running for the door.

“I know what,” he calls over his shoulder. “Everything will be okay. Just wait there, Gianni. Don’t go anywhere.” 

“Well, I mean, if I get a better offer,” Jonny huffs. He closes his eyes to visualise his breathing, focus on it until everything else fades away. There’s nothing but the movement of his chest as it pushes out and collapses in, out and in. Full inhale, full exhale. Inhale, exhale. He can see his heart slowing down, only for it to almost stop completely when Roberto comes crashing back in the door.

“See,” Roberto says, pushing a confused looking Patrick in front of him. He starts to gesticulate between Patrick and the foot of space separating the elevator from the ground. “He can fix this. Tell him to fix this, and we’ll pay him in free coffees.” He pauses. “Maximum of five.”

But Patrick seems to have figured out what Roberto wants without any help from Jonny. “ _Oh_ ,” he says, pointing to himself. “ _Yeah, no, I’m not in construction. You need an engineer. I’m just a third-year architect student. I work in restorations. Well, more like volunteer in exchange for hard hats and these very fetching vests._ ” 

Roberto looks to Jonny for some sort of translation. “He can’t help,” Jonny says, rolling his neck. “He does restoration projects.”

“Gah,” Roberto exclaims and throws Patrick a disappointed look before leaving again.

“ _He’s gone to get an engineer, right?_ ” Patrick says, watching him go. “ _Maybe I’ll stay with you in case there’s a fire. You’d cook in there._ ” He steps up to the gate and cranes his head to peer up at the ceiling of the elevator. “ _Neat system. Holeless hydraulic, I think. Don’t see these too often in the US._ ” His hands pat the pockets of his olive coloured cargo shorts, pulling out a notebook and a small pencil. “ _Cool building. You live here? I live in a hostel, which is really just a big shed_.” His voice fades as he moves away, and Jonny closes his eyes again. It’s getting really hot in here and his back is starting to itch. The air feels like it’s too thick to be taken in, like it might get stuck in his throat. He’s edging a pretty big panic attack.

He tries a different focus, tuning out everything but the soft sounds in the hall. The swish of Patrick’s pencil as it flies over the pages of his notebook, the little click of his phone as he snaps photos, the depth of his tone as he carries on talking. “... _all originals...someone who studied Bernini...maybe seventeen fifties, probably not long before Baroque went out of style...he created David... not the David, as in the naked dude with the excellent manscape in Florence... that’s Michelangelo_ …”

Jonny can sense himself drift, as if his head is stuffed with cotton. He can’t even hear Patrick’s voice anymore, so he’s probably already gone -

“ _Hey, hey!_ ” 

Jonny jolts, startled by the sudden shout and the appearance of Patrick’s face almost pressed against the cage door. “ _Shit, you’re not okay in there, are you? Fuck. When is your boss coming back?_ ” He looks briefly over his shoulder. “ _Hey, you do know that you’re perfectly safe, right? I can’t fix this elevator, but I have a pretty good idea of how it works. Chances are, it’s just the stabilizer sensor, which means that the elevator can’t move. It’s frozen. You’re not going to plunge to your death, or anything. I mean, even if you were, which you’re not, you’ll only plunge about ten inches before you hit the ground, and I’ve seen your ass, man. That thing could absorb the impact._ ”

Not helping, Jonny thinks.

“ _I’m probably not helping_ ,” Patrick says. “ _But if there is a fire, and we have to get you out of there, I can break this door down_.”

Roberto would kill them.

“ _Although, your landlord would probably kill us_.” Patrick clucks his tongue a few times, staring intently at Jonny. “ _I don’t think you’re worried about falling. I think you might be claustrophobic._ ”

Since Jonny was a kid and David locked him in the closet under the stairs.

“ _You probably got locked in somewhere small when you were a kid_ ,” Patrick says, flicking through his phone. “ _How about some soothing music? I’ll find something on Youtube, and we’ll get you calmed right down. How about some whales? They’re relaxing, right?_ ”

No phone signal in here.

“ _I can’t get a signal_.” Patrick waves his phone in the air without success. “ _Should I make some whale sounds for you? What do they sound like anyway?_ ” He opens his mouth, tips his head back and forces the weirdest howl from the back of his throat. “ _No, wait. I’ll have another go._ ” He does, and Jonny can’t help but laugh, sharp and incredulous.

“ _I know what you’re thinking_ ,” Patrick says with a smirk. “ _How did Free Willy get in here, right?_ ”

Not even close.

“ _It must be working because you’re starting to look a little more with us. Actually, now that I think of it_ -” Jonny watches as he goes fishing in his pockets again. “ _Aha!_ ” Patrick holds up a battered orange that’s more oblong than spherical. “ _Want to have lunch with me? Excuse the nails - it’s just dust._ ”

Jonny’s sitting on his dirty laundry while marinating in his own sweat. He can handle a little dust.

Patrick’s hands are deft and clever as they strip the skin, doing most of the work with the pads of his thumbs. “ _I think it might be best if I keep talking. I know you can’t understand a word I’m saying, but that’ll probably work for both of us_.” He begins threading the orange segments through the bars of the door, where Jonny’s grateful fingers can collect them. Patrick keeps only the last piece for himself. “ _You need more, man. Your blood sugars are probably tanking right now_.” He puts the peel back into his pockets, which is a sure fire way to attract every wasp in Rome.

“ _I’ll have to put those in the trash later, or every wasp in Rome is going to be after me_ ,” he says. “ _So, I’m Patrick, and you’re Gianni, right?_ ” He points to himself - “ _Patrick_.” - and then to Jonny - “ _Gianni._ ”

Jonny nods.

“ _And you were an asshole yesterday when you answered my phone. But you actually did me a huge favour, so thanks._ ” He holds up his one piece of orange, like he’s making a toast. “ _Bon appetite_.”

Jonny’s already sucking on the juice while chewing the pulp. It’s like eating citrusy heaven.

“ _That was my dad calling_ ,” Patrick continues. “ _We haven’t spoken for a while because I chose to come here instead of staying in Buffalo for my cousin’s wedding. Matt got married the other day. He’s a good guy, and I was supposed to be his groomsman, along with his brother Josh, who is also, strangely enough, my cousin. Josh and I have been best friends since we were kids, from learning to walk to going to school to getting caught with fake IDs to him sleeping with my boyfriend._ ” He glances up, a sick look on his face. “ _I caught them. Like, walked in on them_.” Patrick wrinkles his nose. “ _Ew,_ ” he says. “ _It was gross, and I don’t get it, you know? Well, I get why Cal would sleep with Josh. Josh is all tall and built and good hair, and not me, and he’s probably not the first person Cal fucked behind my back. What I don’t get it why Josh would sleep with him, considering that he’s straight._ ” He puts the last word in air-quotes, and then licks his sticky fingers. “ _And because he’s my family and my best friend, and he’s supposed to love me. I don’t even care about Cal, not really. That was a shitshow all of its own. He didn’t even look back when I told him to fuck off. But Josh is different._ ”

Jonny chews another orange section, trying to imagine how shitty he’d feel if his family betrayed him like that. The worst thing David ever did to him was lock him in that closet, and maybe it’s time to let that fully die.

“ _Josh begged me not to tell anyone, and I didn’t. Never told anyone before now. Not even my sisters. Our family just think that Josh and I had a dumb falling out, but I just couldn’t stand there on the altar with him, pretend that everything was okay. No way._ ” Patrick sighs heavily and his jaw works silently for a few seconds. “ _So I came here, and now everyone is mad at me. Everyone. You’re so stubborn, Patrick. You’re so irresponsible, Patrick. This is why we never let you have a dog, Patrick. You’re breaking your mother’s heart, Patrick. Ugh. They all think I’m having a great time, being Indiana Fucking Jones in Italy. But._ ” He stops, and swallows painfully. “ _I’m miserable most of the time. I just miss them all so much, and I hate that they’re mad at me, and I hate that things will never be the same again between me and Josh, and I hate that I can’t say why. And I’d die if any of them knew that I cry in the shower most nights._ ”

It cuts Jonny, how dull and small he sounds, and it also dawns on him that it’s time to end this charade - maybe even long past it - but he should say something to this kid that is spilling his heart onto the floor to stop Jonny having a panic attack. Something in English. But whatever Jonny is going to say curdles in his throat when Patrick speaks again.

“ _Actually, I’d die if anyone knew about that. Thank god you don’t understand English. Not that I’d be telling you any of this if you did. And, I’m sorry about that first day, that speako English thing. I was on a streak of pissing absolutely everybody off, and it was the wedding day, and I was all, you know._ ” He throws his hands up and waves them a little. “ _But it’s not all bad now. I spoke with my dad, and my mom called me after, and it’s still...not great. But it’s as good as it can be right now. So, there’s that. And oh, hey, the cavalry_.”

Jonny looks up as Roberto reappears with the engineer. “Him again,” the engineer scoffs. “I thought you barred him from using the elevator.”

“ _And I think that’s my cue to go_ ,” Patrick says, stretching a little. “ _I missed my coffee, though. You owe me_.”

Jonny pushes himself up quickly, too quickly. His head still feels a little muzzy. “Patrick,” he says, pressing his hands into the gaps where Patrick’s were seconds before. “Grazie.”

“ _You’re welcome_ ,” Patrick says, his smile huge. And Jonny’s going to blame the dizziness for how that makes his stomach swoop.

 

*****

 

When Patrick comes into the shop again, he’s talking loudly into the phone he has jammed between his ear and his shoulder. Although maybe not loudly – just amplified in the sudden, curious silence.

“Nothing to see here, people,” Jonny says warningly.

“What’s he saying?” Paolo whispers.

“Something about where he’s hidden the bodies of all the other silly yentas that have taken an unhealthy interest in his life.”

“Gianni,” Ricci complains. 

“I am not listening to his private conversation,” Jonny says, clipped.

“ _Morning, beautiful_ ,” Patrick says as he passes by. Jonny blinks, and turns to watch him swagger to his seat. “ _Not you, Erica. I was talking to the hot waiter that works here. I saved his life yesterday_.”

Jonny grabs a cloth and begins wiping down some nearby tables.

“Can I have a cappuccino, Gianni?” Cristiano asks.

“Quiet,” Jonny hisses.

“But -”

“No,” Jonny huffs. “Maybe. In a minute.”

“Oh, so _now_ you’re listening,” Valentina smirks, her eyes on the chess pieces in front of her. 

I’m trying to, Jonny thinks.

“ _Nah_ ,” Patrick laughs. “ _He’s hot as Hades, salty as fuck, though. We have this thing going on where he deliberately gives me the wrong order every time...No, I thought he was just terrible at his job, too. At first...Joke’s on him though. I actually really like the cookies he thinks I hate_...”

Jonny turns his back to hide his smile. 

“Cappuccino, Gianni,” Cristiano reminds him.

Jonny nods and reaches for a clean jug to steam some milk. He tries to keep it as quiet as possible until Patrick finishes his call.

“Finally,” Cristiano sighs, and then gapes when Jonny slaps his hands away.

“Not for you,” he says, bringing the coffee to Patrick, along with a sfogliatella. 

“ _Thanks_ ,” Patrick says, moving his hat and phone out of the way. “ _Oh. That’s. Is that the thing I ordered the first day? And the second? And probably the third and fourth?_ ” His nose twitches as he gives the plate a considerably unfriendly look. “ _It’s just that I like the other things better now. The cookie things_?”

The cookie things. Roberto would pull his own hair out if he heard that.

“ _You know_ ,” Patrick continues slowly. “ _That’s weird. I was just talking to my sister, and I said. I mentioned_ -” He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “ _It’s almost as if_ …”

“Almost as if what?” Jonny asks innocently, not so much as flinching when Patrick stares him down.

“ _No, nevermind_ ,” Patrick says, shaking his head. 

“Okay, well, enjoy,” Jonny says, his smile syrupy sweet. “Hope it’s not too salty for you.”

He can feel the sass in his step when he leaves to clear more tables and brew more coffee. “And what is wrong with your face?” he asks Cristiano, pointing at the strange, grimacing thing he has happening.

“I’m smiling at you in the hope that it gets me what I want,” Cristiano says. “It worked for him.”

“Maybe save that for the ladies,” Jonny suggests, reaching for the milk, and then abandoning it again when there’s a crash from the kitchen. The next five minutes consist of him being shouted at by Roberto for leaving his laundry bag by the door, and he can stay to clean up the tray of cannoli that are scattered all over the floor and the clean clothes, and Jesus Christ, _get back out to the shop where he’s needed_. 

He goes straight to Patrick’s table, smirking when he sees that only half the pastry has been eaten. Patrick seems to have forgotten about it anyway, and is busy with the same notebook he had yesterday. 

“You didn’t like the -” Jonny stops abruptly. “Stupefacente,” he says without thinking.

Patrick looks up at him with slightly wounded eyes. “ _Stupid_?”

“No,” Jonny says quickly, pointing at the opened page. “Um, fantastico. Brillante.” It’s a pattern from an ornate tile, a small sketch of something bigger, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The detail is amazing, even in charcoal and shade. “Magnifico.”

“ _Well_ ,” Patrick says, looking decidedly more pleased. “ _I’m not going to argue_.” He rubs absently at the graphite staining the side of his hand. “ _It’s the project I’m working on right now. Up at the church_.” His face is soft, as is the smile that he bites off his lips. “ _I’m glad you like it._ ”

“Very much,” Jonny says. 

Patrick smiles again and begins to gather up his belongings. 

“Momento,” Jonny says, running quickly to collect a paper bag from the counter. “For you,” he says, holding it out to Patrick.

Patrick looks inside curiously. “ _Oh, the cookie things. Thanks, Gianni._ ” He digs around in his pocket for his wallet.

“No,” Jonny says, shaking his head dramatically. “No, grazie, Patrick.”

Patrick looks confused.

“Grazie,” Jonny repeats, pointedly.

“ _Oh. Is this for yesterday? You don’t have to do that. It was no big deal_.”

“Actually, it was,” Jonny says.

“ _Well, let me pay for the cookies, at least_.”

Jonny shakes his head again, giving Patrick’s wallet a filthy look.

“ _Okay. Thank you. But here, take this_.” He opens his notebook and pulls out the page Jonny was admiring. “ _Consider it a tip. And because you like it so much_.” He’s almost shy as he hands it over.

“I couldn’t,” Jonny begins, and then stops because Patrick might get offended by any objections. And because Jonny really wants the sketch. “Grazie,” he says, taking it.

“Prego,” Patrick replies proudly.

“Hey, Gianni, what are you whispering about? What did you get?” Valentina asks when Patrick leaves. “Did you buy him lunch?”

“Okay,” Jonny says, putting the sketch into the large pocket of his apron and clapping his hands for attention. “Listen up, everyone. I’m going to tell you everything I know. Patrick’s argument with his father was one of those silly arguments all families have. They’ve sorted it out now. He’s a student spending his summer here because he’s studying architecture, and he’s got a placement on some restoration works. He gave me this sketch because I said I liked it. I’ll pay for his coffee and pastry because he kept me company when I got stuck in the elevator yesterday. There’s biscotti in the bag I just gave him, because he likes them. And that’s the whole story. I’m sorry it’s not more thrilling.”

“There is no ugly girl?” Paolo asks, disappointed.

“No ugly girl, no drug lords, no other villains, no forced marriages. No mystery whatsoever.”

“Ah, Gianni,” Valentina says mildly. “That’s not true. The greatest mystery has yet to be solved. The one where we figure out why you are still pretending that you don’t understand Patrick when he speaks to you.” She smirks victoriously when Jonny blushes a shade that feels ugly on his face. “See, you are the one creating the drama now. We’re all just watching the show.” With a quick flick of her wrist, she knocks over her husband’s king. “Checkmate.”

Jonny’s struggling for a reply when Cristiano gets up and walks behind the counter. “I’m just going to make my own cappuccino.”

 

*****

 

Jonny blows fifty percent of his weekly wage on a spa experience the following day. Juice breakfast, yoga, seaweed bath, meditation in the Japanese roof garden, followed by a Swedish massage.

“You’re full of tension,” Nina informs him while she works on his knots.

“My shoulders are feeling it,” he admits.

“Your shoulders, your back, your thighs. Everywhere, Gianni. You are a big ball of stress.”

“I blame the people I work with,” Jonny sighs.

“Most people do,” Nina muses, and sets about sweeping and kneading the strain from his body. Jonny sighs some more and inhales the soothing lavender scents, drifting off to the soft sounds of - 

“You’re tensing up again,” Nina scolds. 

“Is that whale music?”

“Yes. You don’t like it?”

Jonny’s not sure if he does or not. He just doesn’t really want to think about whales right now. “Do you have something else?” Maybe a crying baby? Nails scraping down a blackboard? An angle grinder? 

“Sure,” Nina says. “But I think we might upgrade your thirty minutes to an hour.”

 

*****

 

“ _I met you when you’re not here_ ,” Patrick says when Jonny comes back to work the next morning. “ _The better you, because she speaks English_.” He grins. “ _Better, but not prettier_.”

Jonny has no idea what he’s talking about.

“ _Noemi, the waitress who works when you don’t. She filled me in on all your secrets_.”

Every bit of yesterday’s hard won zen crashes out of Jonny, leaving him frozen, snared. 

“ _Apparently_ ,” Patrick continues. “ _You might be in love with someone who is being forced to marry some ugly member of a drug cartel. Something about a debt. I don’t know._ ” He scrunches up his nose. “ _Some of it might have got lost in translation. At least, I hope it did_.”

“Oh my god,” Jonny says through clenched teeth. “What is happening.”

“ _She also introduced me to everyone, and now I have friends. Ciao, Valentina, Ricci, Paolo, Cristiano!_ ”

“Ciao, Patrick,” they call back, raising their cups in salute.

“Excuse me,” Jonny manages, already on his way over to Valentina’s table. 

“Relax, Gianni,” she says before he can speak. “She didn’t tell him that you speak English. We told her not to.”

Jonny feels stupidly relieved. “What did you tell him?”

She takes her time answering, tapping her gnarled fingers against the chess pieces. “There’s always a kernel of truth in the best lies, Gianni. We just told him that you appeared here two months ago, and no one knows exactly where you are from, but we think you might go back there after the summer. I think that Paolo and Ricci might have said some other things. I don’t know how much of it Noemi was able to translate.”

“Enough of it,” Jonny grunts. “You all should just stay out of my business.”

“Stay out of your lie, you mean,” Valentina corrects. 

Jonny swallows and casts a furtive look at Patrick, who playing with his phone. “Fine. Okay, yes. But I can’t tell him the truth,” he says quietly. “I can’t tell you why I can’t tell him. Just that he told me something very personal that he wouldn’t have if he knew I could understand him. And this whole mess is bad enough without anybody making it worse. So, please, don’t make this any worse.”

“Oh,” she says, eyes widening. “This is just like that time -”

“Don’t,” Jonny begs. “Don’t say anything about your soap opera right now.”

“ - when Felicia was hiding in the confessional booth, and the Dalai Lama admitted to being in love with her, with Felicia.”

“Yes,” Jonny says, deadpan. “This is exactly like that time.”

“And,” Valentina continues. “She did not say anything because she did not want him to feel betrayed and foolish.”

“A better analogy,” Jonny concedes. “Although strange to imagine the Dalai Lama in a Catholic confessional.”

“He wasn’t there for confession. He just ended up in the Vatican after his part in the whole EU butter mountain scandal. But I digress.” She looks steadily at Jonny, her expression dangerously mild. “There is another reason why Felicia did not tell the Dalai about what she had heard. And that was because she did not want him to think badly of her.”

Jonny needs a few seconds with that. “What? No. I don’t really care what he thinks of _me,_ ” he says, and stoically weathers Valentina’s blatant scepticism. 

“Okay,” she says after an uncomfortable minute. “He’s nice, though. Funny and interesting. He told us stories about his sisters. One of them -” She stops and shakes her head. “You are right. I will say no more.”

“Thank you,” Jonny says, tamping down the part of him that immediately wants to know more about Patrick’s sisters. “And I won’t tell Fredo about the two sneaky and high illegal moves you just made there.”

“Then we understand each other,” she nods, face morphing into a picture of innocence when her husband comes out of the restroom.

Jonny passes Patrick’s table on the way back to the counter. 

“ _Forget about me_?” Patrick teases.

Soon, Jonny hopes.

 

*****

 

He thinks about Patrick later that evening, when he’s lying on his bed and staring at the shadows on the ceiling. How it might have went.

“Speako English?” Patrick says.

“ _Better than you_ ,” Jonny snaps back, and maybe Patrick blushes, apologises and suggests that they start again.

“Speako English?” Patrick says.

“ _No, but you’re in luck because I do speako fluent asshole_ ,” Jonny snaps back, and Patrick laughs, delighted.

“Speako English?” Patrick says.

“ _Get the fuck out and never come back here again_ ,” Jonny snaps back, and Patrick does exactly that, and a few days later, Jonny passes out in the elevator again.

But all the how-it-might-have-beens don’t change the one how-it-went, and there’s nothing Jonny can do about that. If there was, then maybe he’d ask Patrick out on a date. They’d go for coffee or a walk or long lunch on a shaded street. Patrick’s beautiful, and he’s a lot of other things that Jonny likes in boyfriends.

It’s a pity, really, a lost opportunity, and Jonny feels bad about the whole thing on a few levels. But he’s also keeping a sense of perspective. He might feel guilty and disappointed, but summer will pass in another six weeks or so, and Jonny will be back in Canada, getting on with his studies, and the rest of his life. He probably won’t even think of Patrick.

He reaches to snap on the lamp and snag his book from the bedside locker. The page falls open on the beginning of the next chapter, marked by the drawing Patrick had given him. It’s beginning to curl a little at the edges, some of the lines becoming smudged. Jonny might laminate it.

He probably won’t think of Patrick _much_.

 

*****

 

Jonny’s plan for Patrick to fade to a whimsical memory never really gets off the ground. It’s not that Jonny isn’t doing his part; all of it is on Patrick, who seems to be elevating his game. The flirting is just downright embarrassing, for everyone concerned. Patrick tacks on a _gorgeous_ , or a _babe_ to every greeting, order and goodbye. Jonny wants to put his hands on his hips and object, but he has to settle for walking to kitchen and pressing his blush and his smile into the cool tiles.

“You’re the one being weird,” he mutters to himself.

“You certainly are,” Roberto agrees.

Roberto likes Patrick; everybody does. Including, and this is a betrayal too far, Lucca. Jonny almost drops the tray of pastries he’s carrying when he walks out to Lucca parked happily on Patrick’s hip, giggling and patting at the hard hat that Patrick has balanced on his little head.

“We have to keep him, Gianni,” Lotta says. “Look! Look at my arms! They have not known this freedom in almost two years.”

Jonny can’t help but feel a little put out. He had tried to hold Lucca one time, and was rewarded with what felt like a burst eardrum. The kid has a higher pitch than Mariah Carey having her toes trampled on.

“ _What is happening to your face, man_ ,” Patrick says, laughing. “ _Hey, Lucca, do you think he’s jealous? Which of us do you think he’s jealous of, huh? You think he’d like to be holding you, or would he like me to be holding him?_ ”

Lucca babbles around the hand he has stuffed into his mouth, blowing spit everywhere, which just seems to charm Patrick even more.

“ _You’re really gross, my man_ ,” he says admiringly, not even ducking away when Lucca slaps mushy fingers into Patrick’s crazy curls.

“Gianni,” Valentina says, smirking. “Stop looking at the baby like you want to kill him.”

“ _So, hey, Lucs, will we go watch Valentina and Fredo play another game of chess?_ ” Patrick coos. “ _Got to keep your eyes on the lady. She cheats like a boss, and Fredo mostly pretends not to notice. But hey, sometimes you’ve got to do that for your important person. Let the small shi...stuff slide. I mean, look at me. I ignore Gianni’s resting bitch face all the time._ ” He nuzzles into Lucca’s temple, blows a raspberry against it. “ _Actually, between me and you? I find it pretty hot. Just, don’t tell him_.”

Jonny walks into the kitchen without looking back.

“Really weird,” Roberto says when he passes by.

Jonny just keeps his face pressed into the tiles. “It can’t get any worse,” he consoles himself.

Only it does. And Patrick isn’t really doing anything other than being Patrick. He tips Jonny in sketches, helps him fold napkins into a variety of animal shapes, and ponders the Sal/Annetta love story.

“ _It’s really not mutual, is it?_ ” he says, almost sadly. “ _He never looks back at her_.”

“He never takes his head out of that laptop,” Jonny agrees.

“ _If only he’d only take his head out of that laptop and see how she loooks at him. She wouldn’t even have to say anything. You can tell a lot by the way someone looks at you._ ” He stares right at Jonny when he says that, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “ _You look at me like you like me. Not always, but now you do. You used to look at me like I was something unfortunate on your shoe. But not now. You like me now._ ”

Jonny’s making a disaster of his swan napkin. “I like you now,” he says. “I like you very much now.”

“ _I don’t even know what you’re saying_ ,” Patrick says, effortlessly whipping up a giraffe in less than six folds. “ _But I love listening to you_.”

“I love watching your hands.”

“ _You could be calling out your shopping list, and I’d still think it’s hot as fuck. You know, carrots, chocolate, mayonnaise_.”

“What would I even make with those three things?”

“ _Although, I’m not sure what you’d make using those three things_.” Patrick tilts his head, chews on his lips. “ _See? You’re doing it again. Looking at me like you like me_.”

“Gianni,” Cristiano calls. “Can I please have a cappuccino?”

Jonny sighs and gets up from where he’s sitting at Patrick’s table. “Hey,” he says when he gets behind the counter. “So, I hear that you guys were using Noemi as a translator when you were talking to Patrick last week.”

Cristiano nods. 

“And,” Jonny continues casually. “He was saying that he has sisters. How many was it again? Two? Three?”

“Valentina says she will kill anyone who tells you anything,” Cristiano says, slicing his hand across his throat. 

“Fine,” Jonny says sourly. “Get your own cappuccino.” He shoves the milk jug across the counter and goes back to origami with Patrick.

 

*****

 

It’s not often that Jonny gets two consecutive days off. They’re not even great days, Tuesday and Wednesday, but they’re together, so he’s not complaining. He might go to Termini after he’s taken his laundry from Roberto’s dryer. He can get on a train, go somewhere. Anywhere. Just join the shortest line and get out of Rome for a bit.

“Hey,” Noemi calls. “What are you doing here?”

“Drive by visit,” Jonny answers, shaking the basket in his hands. 

“Stay out the elevator,” Roberto roars from the kitchen.

“So, I met your Patrick,” Noemi says, smiling when Jonny ducks his head a little. “He’s nice.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t be lying to him.”

Jonny sighs. “I know that, too.”

“How long are you going to keep it up for?”

“Until he leaves,” Jonny admits. “Or I do. Whichever happens first.”

“In that case,” she says, looking over his shoulder. “It's just as well that we're speaking Italian. _Hi, Patrick. How are you?_ ”

Jonny spins around, almost certain that she’s ragging on him because it’s only ten am, and Patrick is never here this early. But Patrick is here, walking towards them, sneakers on his feet instead of heavy work-boots. He’s wearing another pair of cargo shorts and a blue t-shirt. The hard hat has been traded for a softer cap, and he looks like he might if he weren’t working.

“ _Hi,_ ” he says, looking from Jonny to Noemi. “ _This is pretty good timing_.”

Jonny’s not so sure.

“ _You want a coffee?_ ” Noemi asks.

“ _No_ ,” Patrick answers, shaking his head. “ _I’m not here for that. It’s just that I remembered you said you were working today, and so I figured that Gianni wouldn’t be. I thought if I hung around long enough, he might come in and you could help me ask him something?_ ”

“ _Sure_ ,” Noemi says, casting a little evil eye in Jonny’s direction. 

“ _Okay_ ,” Patrick says, suddenly sounding a little nervous. “ _Well, I’m not working until later this afternoon, and I wanted to see if he’d go out with me this morning. Now, even. I have something we could do, but if he wants to do something else, I’m easy. Or if he’s busy or not interested, that’s cool, too._ ” He wipes his palms on his shorts and wets his lips with his tongue, eyes never leaving Jonny. “ _If you, uh, could turn that ramble into something that makes me sound cool and interesting. I know I’m not giving you much to work with_.”

“ _Of course_ ,” Noemi says, giving Patrick a reassuring smile that fades when she turns to Jonny. “Do you kick puppies in your spare time? Throw kittens into rivers? Pinch babies when their parents aren’t looking?”

“I can’t go,” Jonny says, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “Tell him I can’t go. Busy. Doctor, dentist, candle making class, coffin shopping. Any of those.”

“Hell no, look at that face. I’m not breaking his heart. _Patrick, he said that he would love to go_.” 

Patrick squints at Jonny. “ _Really? He doesn’t seem so sure_.”

“ _He’s just surprised_ ,” Noemi says smoothly. 

“ _Okay. Cool. And can you tell him that I have to be back by about three to get ready for work. Like, I don’t know, maybe I’ll do this when we have to leave?_ ” Patrick taps on his wrist, like he’s asking the time.

“He really is very pretty,” Noemi says. “It’ll be good for you to go out and have some fun. And maybe have an honest conversation.”

Patrick looks between them again. “ _Does he understand?_ ”

“ _He understands perfectly_ ,” Noemi promises, taking the laundry basket from Jonny.

 

*****

 

Patrick doesn’t say much after he leads them out onto the street. Even if they could talk, conversation is pretty much impossible as they jostle their way through the crazy crowds. They lose sight of each other a couple of times, and it’s all Jonny can do to hold onto his flip-flops.

He doesn’t quite understand why they seem to be going further into the throngs rather than away from them. If Jonny was in charge of this date, they’d maybe go the Garden of Oranges or the Baths of Caracalla. Perhaps lunch at _Le Jardin de Russie_. Away from the maddening crowds.

“ _This way,_ ” Patrick calls, jerking his head to the left, and Jonny groans because he knows what that means. They’re heading in the direction of the Colosseum, and he hopes that Patrick has had the foresight to buy skip-the-line tickets. Which, technically, are really join-the-shorter-line tickets, but it would cut their baking in the sun down to one hour instead of four. 

They’re maybe a five minute walk away, but it takes at least twenty to round the ruins, and when Patrick guides them beyond the entrance stalls and to the right, Jonny realises they’re going to the Forum. It’s definitely somewhere he’d rather be, even if it is no less packed.

“ _Stay with me_ ,” Patrick says, tugging on the hem of Jonny’s damp t-shirt, and dragging him past the lines until they get to the ticket gates. “ _Hey, Marco_.” 

“Ciao, Patrick,” Marco - Jonny assumes - replies. 

Patrick pulls an ID badge from one of his many pockets. “ _I’m bringing a guest_ ,” he says, nodding at Jonny.

Marco nods and bends down to rummage around in a small basket. “Here,” he says, throwing Jonny a blue cord with a visitor’s pass on it. Jonny catches it and hangs it around his neck.

Patrick scans in, a little beep coming from the machine as he runs the barcode over it. “ _Come on_ ,” he says, holding the gate open. Jonny looks around to a sea of hostile glares and grumbles from the tired and overheated lines, and he’s never felt so ‘I’m with the band’ in his life. It’s oddly thrilling.

“ _This way_ ,” Patrick says, coaxing Jonny left, and walking them both up some steps. “ _This is the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina. And this is the San Lorenzo in Miranda. It’s a church. A pretty neat church. I work here_.” Patrick raps twice on the heavy door, and a few seconds later it opens.

“Closed to the public,” a woman tells Jonny.

“ _Hi, Sabina_ ,” Patrick says, pushing up the brim of his cap so she can see him.

“ _Ah, Patrick_ ,” she says, stepping back. “ _I thought you weren’t working until this evening_.”

“ _I’m not. But I am showing off this morning._ ” He walks inside and beckons for Jonny to follow. “ _This is Gianni. Don’t speak to him. I’m trying to impress him_. ”

“Ciao, Gianni,” Sabina says. 

“ _I said don’t speak to him_.”

Sabina grins mischievously. “ _So, you don’t want me to tell him about the time you got thrown out of here for eating your lunch in the sacristy, or the time that you almost took your eye out with a chisel, or the time that we tricked you into believing you damaged the Madonna frieze?_ ”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Patrick says with a firm nod. “ _I do not want you to tell him any of those things. Don’t ruin this for me, Sabina._ ”

“Welcome to San Lorenzo, Gianni,” Sabina says. She’s friendly and lively, and Jonny likes her immediately. She also has a very impressive handshake. “You’ll have to wear a hard hat. Safety regulations because we have scaffolding in the building. And stick close to our favourite American. Actually, right now, our only American.”

“Patrick is the only American working here?” Jonny says. 

“We get plenty of overseas students to our sites,” Sabina replies. “But he’s the only one we kept longer than a couple of weeks. Great hands.”

That makes Jonny ache a little, the idea of Patrick being here alone, unable to make friends in a place with a high turnover of kids his own age. It has to be lonely for a guy like him.

“ _I heard my name_ ,” Patrick says. “ _What are you saying to him?_ ”

Sabina translates, and Patrick’s face relaxes. “ _Oh, yeah_ ,” he says, smiling at the compliment. He holds up his hands and looks at them approvingly. “ _Sweet mitts_.”

“ _And big head_ ,” Sabina scoffs. “ _Which needs a hat_.”

“ _Yes, ma’am_ ,” Patrick says with a smart salute. He disappears into a small room for a few seconds and returns with two hard hats, tossing one at Jonny. “ _Let’s go_.”

There are a lot of things that Jonny isn’t enjoying right now, namely the ball of guilt that’s bouncing in his stomach. But there are other things he can’t help but enjoy. Like this beautiful church and Patrick’s enthusiasm for it. He points out markings and paintings, talking in hushed tones, giving a little history lesson for every piece they stop at. Jonny is bowled over by how quickly Patrick recites dates and details, like he has some sort of photographic memory for facts and figures.

He saves his biggest geek-out for the architecture. Jonny has no idea what entablatures or doric imposts or archivolts are, but they certainly seem to delight Patrick.

“ _And this is my favourite chapel_ ,” he says. “ _That’s St. Francis of Assisi kneeling before the crucified Christ. It’s a little historically inaccurate, but it’s one of my favourites. It’s definitely seventeenth century, and the artist was most likely either Giacinto Brandi or Happy Ottini._ ”

Jonny stares at the painting, somewhat bemused by the idea of such a dark image being the work of someone called Happy.

“ _Want to go see John the Baptist being beheaded?_ ” Patrick asks, and Jonny absolutely does.

They walk around for a couple of hours, Patrick’s voice a constant in Jonny’s ear. They’re not the only people here, but the other restorationists don’t give them much more than a cursory glance before going back to their work. 

“ _Just a couple more things I want to show you_ ,” Patrick says, walking them to a large, and very solid, door. “ _And you really have to know someone in the know to get to see this. So, you know, be impressed._ ” He draws back the heavy bolt and Jonny helps pull the door open.

“Woah,” he says immediately.

“ _Right?_ ” Patrick says, pleased.

The view is breathtaking, the whole Forum just laid out before them, a myriad of greens and whites umbrellad by a brilliant blue sky. It’s so vivid that it almost appears artificial.

“ _You won’t see anything more beautiful than this today_ ,” Patrick says.

“That’s just not true,” Jonny says, staring back at him. He’s going to say more, but it’s going to be in English, and most of it will be apologies for this big, dumb, horrible lie that’s eating him alive. Maybe Patrick will forgive him. They’re in the right place for miracles.

“Patrick,” he says again, and then stops when a commotion starts from below them.

“ _What the_ -” Patrick says, squinting at the guy who seems to be shouting at them in a language that Jonny doesn’t recognise. 

The guy shouts louder, throwing a few wild gestures into the mix, and gets even more frustrated when he gets nothing back.

“ _I think he’s upset about something_ ,” Patrick muses. “ _Probably wants us to tell him how to get in here._ ”

The man roars something that sounds like it might be very rude, and then storms off, arms flouncing.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Patrick calls after him. “ _Where’s your church, peasant?_ ”

Jesus. Jonny has to turn around before Patrick catches him laughing.

 

*****

 

The last thing that Patrick shows him is the showstopper. Jonny recognises the tiles instantly; the designs and patterns are the ones in Patrick’s sketches, many of which Jonny now owns.

“ _This is my domain_ ,” Patrick says, pointing to the floor. “ _I know it’s only about what, three metres squared, but I’ve been working on it for over a month. Under Sofia’s very strict supervision. We take each tile out individually, and then we decide if we need to pack it up and send it away for repair, or if we can do it here ourselves. It’s structural damage we’re concerned with, not cosmetic. We only do one tile at a time, catalogue it, map it, and relay it before we lift the next. Might seem like slow work, but Sofia’s motto is first, do no harm. And when you think back to how long this building is standing, well, it’s barely a second._ ”

Jonny crouches down and runs his hand over the old stone, imagining Patrick sitting for hours here, patiently chipping away at centuries old cement, his hands sure and careful as he works. He’s going to say it now, he has to say it now, but when he looks up, Patrick is tapping his wrist, and it’s time to go.

Jonny says a quick prayer before they leave.

 

*****

 

They take a detour on the way back, Patrick leading them through quieter streets until they reach a gelato store. “ _We haven’t got time for lunch_ ,” he says. “ _But this place has the best gelato in Rome_.” He puts his money where his mouth is, ordering a large waffle cone with three different flavoured scoops, and then scoffs at Jonny’s sad looking sorbet. He also insists on paying, tutting in annoyance when Jonny reaches for his own wallet.

They sit by the fountain and eat, faces tipped toward the sun.

Patrick’s phone chimes from his pocket, and he sighs while fishing for it, setting everything else he takes out onto the wall beside them. “It’s my sister,” he says when reads the message. “ _She passed her driving test yesterday. Which is pretty shocking_.” He puts the phone down again without looking and knocks his notebook into the fountain. 

“Patrick,” Jonny says, immediately sticking a hand in the water to try to get it, but it bobs out of reach.

“ _Shit_ ,” Patrick says, reaching over to help. “ _It’s being sucked towards the middle_.”

Jonny’s flip-flops had been kicked off as soon as he sat down, so all he has to do is swing his legs over to step into the water. It’s shockingly cold.

“ _Hey, no, Gianni. Don’t go in the water. It’s just a dumb notebook. Ah, man, no. I’ve seen kids peeing in this very fountain. I don’t even want the notebook back._ ”

Jonny wades in further and loses his footing when the floor dips unexpectedly. He’s down before he even realises he’s dropping, gasping when the water punches the breath out of him.

“ _I’m coming_ ,” Patrick is shouting, and when Jonny rubs the water out of his eyes, he can see Patrick tugging his sneakers and little socks off. “ _I’m coming,_ ” he roars again, and comes crashing in.

“Get out of here, Patrick,” Jonny shouts, spitting what he really hopes is not pee-water out of his mouth. “What are you doing? Get out!”

“ _Just hold on_ ,” Patrick yells. “ _I’m nearly there_.”

“Stop running,” Jonny yells back. “You’re going to -”

Fall.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Patrick says, moving his arms around him, like toddlers do when they’re sitting in the bath. Jonny can’t help but laugh, and laugh louder when Patrick chatters and shakes his head like a dog.

“Idiot,” he snorts, pushing himself to his feet.

Patrick grins back at him. “ _Pretty sure you just called me an idiot, which is rude considering that I was trying to save your life. Again_.”

“You didn’t save it the first time, and I don’t think I was in much danger of drowning in two feet of water. Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He holds out a hand and Patrick grabs it, letting Jonny pull him up. He wobbles a little, slumping against Jonny’s chest, and suddenly going very still. He’s so close that Jonny could count the water drops scattered across his cheekbones. Or maybe the ones resting on his eyelashes. There’s just a lot to look at, this close up.

Patrick swallows, and Jonny’s eyes lower to watch his throat convulse. “Patrick,” he says unsteadily. 

Patrick leans in and kisses him, just a gentle press, resting his lips against Jonny’s. His eyes are huge and serious when he slowly pulls back.

“Patrick,” Jonny repeats and draws him in again, his hand cupping Patrick’s head, tangling in the damp curls. This time Patrick moves his mouth, opening it to let Jonny’s tongue in, catching it with his own. The shock of it makes Jonny short circuit, and he holds on tighter, pushing back, kissing Patrick like he’s finally speaking to him, like he’ll never stop talking. 

“Hey,” someone shouts, and Jonny is perfectly content to ignore it, but Patrick pulls away and they both turn their heads to the man shaking his fist at them from across the fountain.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Patrick laughs, his hands still cupped around Jonny’s elbows. “ _What is it with weird dudes doing that to us today._ ”

It’s probably best not to wait to find out, so Jonny grabs Patrick’s wrist, and they hop over the wall, bundling up their belongings. They leave wet footprints behind as they hightail it up a narrow side street.

“ _Shit_ ,” Patrick says again, and they’re both laughing, bending at the waist to catch a breath. “ _Hold it. I’m putting these back on before I stand on something and end up with blood poisoning_.” He stuffs his feet back into his trainers while Jonny does the same with his flip-flops. 

“Sorry about your notebook,” Jonny says, handing the sodden mess of pulp over, but Patrick just laughs at it.

“ _I would say it wasn’t worth getting wet over, but given how things worked out, I think maybe it was_.” He points down the street behind Jonny. “ _It’s that way to the shop, and I live this way,_ ” he says, and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Mia casa.”

Jonny smiles to let him know that he understands, and Patrick smiles back at him, small and private. “ _I wish I could bring you back, or go back with you, or I don’t know. Something. I mean, I think that kiss was, you know, a thing we could do again. And not that it was just this weird moment that’s gone, and_ -” 

Jonny ducks in to softly kiss him again.

“ _Okay_ ,” Patrick says, licking his lips. “ _Roger that. We can do this again. Maybe tomorrow. So, bye._ ” He gives Jonny an awkward, stiff little wave, and Jonny bats his fingers gently before stepping back.

“ _Wait_ ,” Patrick says quickly, and leans in again. “ _One last kiss_.”

Jonny hopes not.

 

*****

 

He’s sitting on the steps outside his own building when Valentina comes out of the coffee shop.

“You’re wet,” she says, taking a seat beside him.

“I am.”

“How did that happen?”

“I was kissing Patrick in the fountain.”

“Ah, well that would do it,” she says, nodding. 

“Where’s Fredo?”

“Helping Cristiano decide on a birthday gift for his mother.”

They don’t say anything more for a few minutes, until Jonny blurts, “You were right.”

“I usually am,” she says, smoothing out her long skirt. It’s one of those crassly patterned things that makes Jonny’s eyes water when he looks at it for too long. “About what, exactly?”

“I did - I do - care what he thinks of me. I don’t want him to think badly of me. I don’t want him to hate me.”

“Ah,” she says, almost sadly. “And he’s going to?”

“Maybe,” Jonny says, laughing humorlessly. “Probably. But I have to tell him anyway.” 

“You think he’ll be angry?” 

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“Yes,” she says quickly. Too quickly.

Jonny sighs, feeling suddenly drained. He’s really not cut out for a life of mass deception. “What would Felicia do?”

“Something stupid,” Valentina answers, cheered by the idea. “She might write a letter, confessing everything, and then it would end up in the wrong hands. The hands of a blackmailer, who would want more and more money, like blackmailers do. And then poor Felicia would be forced into doing terrible things. Maybe she would sell herself. Or she might sell state secrets to an enemy government. To the King of Finland, perhaps. And then he would blackmail her for more secrets, but maybe what he really wants to know are secrets about the man who is blackmailing her.”

“So, the second blackmailer would blackmail Felicia for information about the first blackmailer?”

“It would be a terrible mess,” Valentina agrees. “Don’t do any of that, Gianni. Don’t be Felicia.”

“I’ll try my best,” Jonny promises her.

 

*****

 

He sits on the windowsill after his shower, drying himself and the contents of his wallet in the evening sun. There’s a dull throb in his temples, his brain a mush of start-and-stop sentences.

\- _So, Patrick, funny thing._

\- _Okay, don’t freak out, but I speak English._

\- _I’m not sure how to tell you this._

\- _Hey, I learned to speak English just for you. Yes, I’m a fast learner. The funny accent? My teacher was Canadian._

The problem isn’t thinking up something to say, it’s getting Patrick to stick around long enough to hear it. 

Maybe Valentina is onto something with a letter. Patrick can’t run away from a letter. It’ll still be there when he calms down or grows curious or is ready for an explanation. And it might be Jonny’s best of limited options.

He climbs back into the room and shakes an order pad and pen from the pocket of yesterday’s apron. 

Then he starts writing, and he doesn’t stop until it’s done.

 

_Patrick_

_I can’t count the amount of times I opened my mouth to speak to you in English today, but choked. Figuratively and literally. I just couldn’t get the words out. I’m not that great with words, which you will see when you read on. Please read on._

_My name is Jonathan, and I’m not Italian. I’m from Canada. I didn’t lie about my name. Gianni is just how Italian people pronounce Jonny. I got used to it._

_I’m sorry. I don’t want to make excuses. I let you believe a lie. That’s totally on me. I just want to explain._

_When I first met you, I thought you were an asshole - PLEASE READ ON - and I didn’t want to talk to you, so I let you think I couldn’t. It was only when I got stuck in the elevator that I started to see you were pretty decent. But I really wasn’t able to speak at all then. I was barely able to breathe. And when you said that you were glad I couldn’t understand you, I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed about what you said. So._

_You kept coming back. And I started to really like you but I was just getting more and more stuck. At first, I lied because I didn’t like you, and then I lied because I didn’t want you to feel bad. But eventually I was lying because I didn’t want you to hate me._

_And I really think you might._

_I don’t really know what else to say. Except I’m sorry, and I wish I could meet you again and start over._

_Here are just some of the things I’ve wanted to say to you:_

_About what you told me in the elevator, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. Except maybe the whale sounds. Those were horrifying._

_I’ve cried in the shower, too. Cried in public, also. I used to play hockey when I was younger. One time I got sent to the bench and cried in front of everybody because I was afraid the other team were going to score._

_I think you’re beautiful._

_I love your passion for what you do. And you are incredibly talented._

_I’ve seen how much butter Roberto puts in those cookie things. You might want to ease up on them._

_You make me laugh._

_Kissing you in the fountain was the most stupidly romantic thing that has ever happened to me in my life._

_I really like you, and no matter what happens after you read this, I will still really like you._

_Oranges are my favourite fruit. I’m so glad you keep them in your pockets._

_Your cousin and your ex are a pair of asshats, who do not deserve you, or your loyalty._

_Feel free to show this letter to anyone you want and point at me while laughing, if you feel this would level up the playing field._

_And please forgive me._

_Jonny_

It’s not a great letter. Not even a letter, really. More a stream of consciousness. Words and guilt vomited on a page. But as his mother would say when he would throw up as child, it’s better to have an empty house than a bad tenant. 

 

*****

“ _What are you doing here so early?_ ” Noemi asks him the following morning. “ _Although I am happy to see you. My oral exam is in two weeks. I need to use my English more._ ”

“ _You’re not the only one,_ ” Jonny sighs, pulling out a stool and hopping up to the counter. “ _And your English is excellent._ ”

She pulls a face at the coffee beans. “ _The conditional tense is killing me._ ”

“ _If you had studied harder?_ ”

“ _Then I would have passed the exam,_ ” she finishes, smiling. “ _How did your date go yesterday?_ ”

“ _It would have gone better if?_ ”

“ _You would have told him that you speak English._ ”

“ _Perfect,_ ” Jonny says. “ _Can I have a coffee? And where is everybody?_ ” He looks around the empty shop. The door is open, a streak of white light reflecting off the clean tiles that haven’t been walked on yet today.

“ _They would be here if it was not nine am,_ ” Noemi answers, reaching for the larger mugs that Jonny prefers to drink from.

“ _Not decaf,_ ” Jonny says before she starts to pour. “ _Maybe I’ll have an espresso, too._ ”

“ _That is a lot of caffeine_ ,” she tuts, but she switches pots and fills his mug. “ _You would not be so tired if you did not have a guilty conscience._ ”

“Thanks,” he says, when the coffee is set down beside him. He puts the envelope on the marble countertop and twirls it around with his finger. The little _Patrick_ that he’d written in the centre goes blurry as it spins. 

“ _What is that?_ ” Noemi asks.

“ _A letter for Patrick, in English._ ”

Her brows rise. “ _The plot thickens_.”

“ _And your idioms are improving._ ”

“ _I am taking to them like a duck to water._ ”

“ _That’s a simile. Here, will you put it under the counter? Keep it safe from nosy customers._ ”

Noemi takes the letter and bends to put it on a shelf. “Ugh,” she says. “ _It’s so messy down here. Does anyone ever clean these shelves?_ ”

“ _Once in a blue moon, maybe,_ ” Jonny says. 

“ _Is that another idiom? I have not heard that one before._ ”

“ _Yeah,_ ” Jonny says, taking a gulp of his coffee. “ _It means not very often. Rarely. Like a blue moon, which is when there are two full moons in one calendar month. I think the second one is the blue moon, even though it isn’t blue in colour._ ”

“ _Interesting_ ,” Noemi says, rising again. “ _We don’t_ -” She cuts off, her eyes widening as she looks past Jonny.

“What?” Jonny says, turning.

For a second, for the briefest of seconds, Jonny is happy to see Patrick standing just inside the door, until he registers the sick, shocked look on his face. And then it hits him, hard.

“Patrick,” he says, sliding from the stool. He takes a step forward, and then stops when Patrick takes one back.

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” Jonny says, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “ _I was going to tell you. Today. I was, I promise. Just. Just give me a minute. Okay? I can explain. Do you want to sit down or anything? I could get you a coffee._ ”

Patrick tips his head back, his face a stunned sort of blank. “ _You’re sorry,_ ” he croaks. “ _You’re sorry?_ ”

Jonny inches forward and Patrick takes another step back. He’s almost at the door now, poised to bolt.

“ _You’ve been lying to me all this time. For what? A joke? Some fucked up game? Were you laughing at me the whole time?_ ” He looks like he might throw up.

“ _No,_ ” Jonny says desperately. “ _God no, please don’t think that. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen_ -”

“ _Oh, I see,_ ” Patrick says sarcastically. “ _You didn’t mean it to happen. You just accidentally lied to me from the moment we met. And then you accidentally lied to me every time after that. Jesus, the shit I said to you, and you. You._ ” He shudders out a breath that becomes a disbelieving laugh. “ _What the fuck is wrong with you._ ”

“ _I’ve explained it in a letter_ ,” Jonny says. “ _That I wrote. To you. If you just read it_ -”

“ _Does everybody here know what you’ve been doing? Are they all in on it? God, I brought you on that date, and the whole time you were_ -” He shakes his head, blinking rapidly.

“ _Patrick,_ ” Jonny says, so very carefully. “ _If you just read the letter_ -”

“ _I don’t want to read your stupid letter,_ ” Patrick says, louder now. “ _You know what, fuck your letter. What even are you, fucking Canadian?_ ” He makes it sound like insult has been added to injury.

“Patrick,” Jonny pleads, utterly lost. This was not how any of this was supposed to go.

Patrick wags a finger in the air a few times and then points it at Jonny. “ _Fuck. You,_ ” he says, and it’s cold, final. He spins around and walks out the door.

Jonny stares after him, frozen.

“I’m sorry, Gianni,” Noemi says quietly. “Do you want me to get you anything?”

“No,” he says shakily. And that reminds him that other people are going to be here soon, wanting things, and Jonny just can’t stomach the thought of facing them. “I’m going next door. If Patrick comes back, can you call me immediately?”

To her credit, she doesn’t laugh at his wishful thinking. “Of course, Gianni.”

 

*****

 

The rational part of him knows that Patrick isn’t coming back. But the stupidly hopeful part of him refuses to give up, and is crushed over and over every time the door opens and Patrick doesn’t walk through it.

“Mope somewhere else,” Valentina suggests when Jonny takes to hovering near the window. “Your sad is putting me off my game.”

“Leave the boy alone,” Fredo scolds. “His heart is broken.”

“Just like the Madre Superiore when her husband was abducted by aliens,” Ricci laments. “She was so sad that she became a nun.”

“Maybe Gianni should take holy orders,” Paolo muses.

“Or maybe he should talk to us,” Annetta says gently. “Tell us what he is feeling.”

It would be a pretty short conversation. Awful, is the general idea. And he’s not sure how to unravel that ball into individual threads, so he leaves it as it is, a big weight that sits heavily in his chest. He doesn’t sleep well, doesn’t want to eat much, doesn’t do much with his nights other than stare at Patrick’s sketches, doesn’t really care that his life is loudly narrated around him, like he’s on the TV, and not actually standing there. 

The only person he wants to talk to is Patrick, and the only way he can is through notes that he stuffs into the envelope that now lives on the shelf under the counter.

 

_Patrick,_

_We all miss you here at Roberto’s. It’s not really the same without you. Valentina and Fredo barely even shout at each other anymore. Lucca watches the place where you used to sit and seems confused. And Lotta tries to kill me with her eyes. Cristiano organised a thumb-wrestling tourney, which he won. But I think that’s because no one really tried to beat him. The prize was his gold bracelet. Roberto is complaining about all the leftover biscotti._

_I’m still sorry._

_Jonny._

_Patrick,_

_Someone sat at your table today. I tried to get him to move, but he wouldn’t. So I got him to leave instead. He caved more easily than you did. He called me the worst waiter in Rome while he was storming out the door. I think you would have enjoyed that. You definitely would have enjoyed how much Roberto shouted at me afterwards. But, I just didn’t like someone sitting where you did, so I’ve turned it into a station. I keep the napkins and the jugs and the cutlery there, and it Lotta says it’s like I’ve hung a black ribbon on it. Cristiano said that was really sad and then offered me a loan of his bracelet to cheer me up._

_In other news, my swan napkins still suck._

_I hope you’re doing okay._

_Jonny_

_Patrick,_

_Big excitement in Roberto’s today. Valentina has finally had a storyline accepted for this crazy soap opera that they all love here. She’s keeping very tight lipped about the details, but I did catch something about a pregnancy, the theft of the Sistine Chapel by martians, and a girl with giant shoulders. Which I think is pretty much standard fare for this show, so I’m not even sure how she got her idea to stand out. I guess we’ll see. Anyway, there was prosecco and I wished you were here to share it._

_Jonny_

 

“Gianni,” Annetta says. “Did you hear me?”

Jonny hms vaguely, trying to avoid her big, earnest eyes. He doesn’t need anything else to feel bad about.

“You should talk to us. We are your friends, and not talking is what started all this -” She’s cut off by Cristiano bursting through the door so hard that it almost comes off the hinges.

“Gianni,” he gasps, and then bends double, completely winded.

“You okay there?” Jonny asks.

Cristiano nods, his hands clenching his knees, sweat streaking across his red face. 

“I think he’s having a heart attack,” Paolo says. “Are you having a heart attack, Cristiano?”

“No,” Cristiano huffs, shaking his head wildly. “Patrick.” 

Jonny’s heart judders violently in his chest. “Patrick?”

“Yes.” Cristiano points to the door, and Jonny runs towards it. “No,” Cristiano says, and he waves his hands like he’s batting a flying insect away. “Not here.”

“You saw Patrick?” Jonny says, and Cristiano nods again while gulping gratefully from the glass of water Ricci has brought him. “And you ran all the way here?”

Cristiano gives him a thumbs up, and falls into a chair. His breathing is now only a little more laboured than Jonny’s. 

“Did you speak to him?” Valentina asks.

“Yes. More water please.” He’s enjoying the theatrics, putting on a little show for the assembled crowd that scooches closer. Jonny might add to the drama by throttling him if he doesn’t start speaking soon.

“So,” Cristiano says, dabbing at his brow. “I was walking down by Piazza di Maria Nova, and I saw Patrick there. There’s a little market nearby and I wanted to buy some tomatoes for the bolognese sauce I’m making at the weekend. It’s my mother’s birthday, and the whole family are coming -”

“Cristiano,” Jonny pleads. 

“Okay,” Cristiano sighs, taking another sip of his water, and if needs be Jonny will shake the story from him. “So, I saw him and he saw me, and we said hello. He looked well, but he wasn’t smiling. He was like Patrick when he first came in here, angry and scowling.”

Jonny adds that image to the list of others that keep him awake at night.

“I said to him that you were sad, Gianni. That you miss him and you don’t sleep and you don’t laugh and you write sad poems in your notepad all day. But he couldn’t understand any of that.”

Thankfully, Jonny thinks.

“So, I point to myself and say ‘Gianni’ so that he’ll know that I’m being you, Gianni.”

“Oh god,” Jonny mutters.

“And then I did this.” Cristiano buries his head in his hands and sobs wildly, his whole body shuddering. The noise startles the quiet room, and horrifies Jonny. “See?” Cristiano grins, extraordinarily proud of himself. “And then I asked him if he had a message for you. He understood that. Maybe message is similar in English?”

Jonny nods dumbly.

Cristiano nods back. “He said yes, message for Gianni.”

“What was it?” Jonny asks, heart thumping along hopefully.

“This,” Cristiano says, lifting his two fists like he’s a boxer, and then springing both middle fingers up.

That’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it is when Jonny immediately asks, “But did he say anything else?”

Turns out, no.

 

*****

 

_Patrick,_

_I keep thinking about how open you are, how you lay everything out there. It’s one of my favourite things about you. And then I think about how you’ve been let down, by your cousin and you ex and your dad, and me. I’d hate to think that this would make you more wary or guarded. What I mean is - don’t change who you are because of who we were._

_Jonny_

 

*****

 

On the morning of his next day off, Jonny goes to the Forum. It’s a really idiotic time to go, peak crowds and peak sun, but he’s itchy and can’t wait until the evening to scratch. The mobs are every bit as big and sprawling as he’d feared, and by the time he gets to scan his ticket, he’s hobbling on bruised feet and he’s down twenty euros for four bottles of tepid water.

“Would you like to join our tour?” an American lady asks him, and Jonny shakes his head. He knows where he’s going, and he walks there without even pausing, skipping up the steps and rapping heavily on the door of the church.

Sabina answers after a few minutes and regards Jonny coolly. 

“Hi,” he says, swallowing dryly. “Is Patrick working today?”

For a long moment he thinks she isn’t going to answer him, that she might just stay there and watch him squirm in his own shame and discomfort.

“Wait,” she says eventually, and closes the door again.

Jonny huffs out a breath through O- shaped lips. This is good, he thinks, beginning to jig on the balls of his sore feet. Patrick is here, and he’ll come to the door, and Jonny’s going to talk. Beg, if necessary, for a chance to explain, and Patrick can do with that what he will. Even if he does tell Jonny to fuck off at the end of it, at least he’ll do so knowing that Jonny was dumb but not cruel. That Patrick wasn’t a joke to him.

His chest gets tight when he hears the bolt pull down, but it’s Sabina who appears again.

“Closed to the public,” she says tartly, and slams the door in his face.

Jonny stares at it numbly for so long that other people gather around to see what he’s looking at.

 

*****

 

“I guess I thought he would have calmed down enough to even just hear me out,” he tells Valentina later. They’re sitting on the steps outside Jonny’s building, watching Rome quieten down for the evening, tired tourists ambling by slowly, swinging bags of trinkets and souvenirs. 

Valentina sucks noisily at the dregs of her frappuccino. “You thought that? Even after Cristiano’s message?”

“I don’t know,” Jonny shrugs. “Maybe I just thought that if he saw me…” He shrugs again, looking down at his hands. “I hoped it would be different.”

She bumps his shoulder companionably. “And what now?”

Jonny shakes his head. “Nothing. He told me he doesn’t want to know to my face. And then he told me again through Cristiano, and a third time through Sabina. He’s made it crystal clear, and I have to respect that.”

Valentina nods in agreement. “I’m sorry, Gianni. I wish I could help you.”

It kind of makes him feel even worse, to know that she can’t even compare this to one of her ridiculous soap opera storylines. Like not even Felicia would be crazy enough to find herself in this dire a situation. 

 

*****

 

_Patrick,_

_It’s quiet in here today. Has been all day, which is making time drag. The regular guys are all missing. I think they might all be gone to Cristiano’s mom’s birthday party. He’s been talking about making a pot of his special sauce. Apparently, the trick is pickled apricots? He’s promised to keep me a bowl, and I’ve promised myself not to eat it_ -

He glances around when the door opens, heart picking up when he sees Patrick standing there.

Patrick, and Valentina, Fredo, Paolo, Ricci, Cristiano, Annetta, and Lotta holding a stroller that Lucca is sleeping in. Plus Sabina and an old lady that Jonny has never seen before. 

But he mostly looks at Patrick. And the envelope he’s holding in his hand. The same envelope that Jonny last saw under the counter.

There’s a lot of shuffling as everyone piles in, all of them jostling for position behind Patrick, trying to find the best view.

“Gianni,” Patrick says when it’s silent again. “Since I am meeting you, I am learning Italian for speaking with you. It was for surprising you.”

Jonny swallows painfully, feeling like his chest might just crack open.

“I am want to saying things to you. For example, will you like to go out with me for food and beverages. And how many peoples are in your family. And do you like the sports. And do you like visit America. And you have eyes beautiful. I want to saying that I like you very much.”

“Thank you,” Jonny says quietly, completely overwhelmed and insanely touched. “Your Italian is very -”

Patrick holds up a hand to silence him. “But now I have something else for saying to you. You making me feel bad and sad, and I am most displeased. You are not for trusting, and I never wanting to sees you again. I hopes Canada never winning a gold medal hockey and you are a pig’s spade.”

“I gave him that one,” Cristiano says, clearly pleased with himself.

“Shhh,” Valentina hisses.

“But they peoples give me this,” Patrick continues, shaking the envelope in his hand. Jonny has never been so grateful for this bizarre gathering of interfering, nosy, liberty-taking, impossible, amazing busybodies in his life.

“And,” Patrick says. “I read it. No, I -” 

“ _We can finish this in English,_ ” Jonny says. “ _And somewhere more private, if you like._ ”

Patrick shakes his head, a stubborn look on his face. So they’re doing it here, like this. Jonny going to have to stand up and take his licks.

And he will, happily.

“I am crazy with angry still,” Patrick says. “But I am understanding. I am knowing you are sorry. And I forgiving you. And Sabina is saying something now.”

Sabina gives Jonny a cheery wave. “If you ever do anything like this to Patrick again, we are burying you under the tiles in the church and they will not find you until the next restorations in two hundred years.”

“Yes,” Patrick nods.

“Okay,” Jonny says, taking a cautious step forward. 

“Kiss him, you fool,” Fredo demands.

“I’m trying to,” Jonny hisses back. God. “Is is okay if I -” He gestures to the space between him and Patrick.

“Wait,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “One, two, three.”

On the three, everyone points a finger at Jonny, and laughs. Loudly and rudely, and for far longer than necessary. Jonny rolls his eyes, but doesn’t dare complain. Especially as it’s making Patrick smile for the first time tonight.

Patrick waves the envelope again, and yeah, Jonny didn’t just give him permission, he gave him the idea. “Okay, okay,” he says, sardonic. “Very funny.” The old lady is still fake laughing like a crazed hyena. “Who are you?” Jonny asks her.

“Ah,” Cristiano says. “This is my mother. Today is her birthday.”

“Oh. Happy birthday,” Jonny says. “I hope you are having a nice day.”

“Thank you,” she says, beaming. “This is the most exciting birthday I’ve had in many years. Every year we sit in the garden and eat Cristiano's shitty sauce. But this year, I got taken to a beautiful church by all these lovely people. We were on a mission. I got to see your boy being very upset and tearing up all the letters. The lady who works there put them back together because she speaks English, and I helped with the tape. Then she translated them for us. Ricci was crying. And when your boy eventually read them, he could not speak at all.” She clasps her hands to her chest. “It was like being in a movie.”

“That's...great?” Jonny says slowly, and turns his attention back to where it most wants to be. On Patrick. He walks slowly towards him, ready to back off if Patrick moves away. But he doesn’t; he stays just as he is until Jonny gets to him.

“I’m sorry,” Jonny says, reaching to thread a hand into Patrick’s hair, pulling him closer, just wanting to bury his nose into the crook of Patrick’s neck and breathe him in. “ _I’m sorry_.”

“ _I know_ ,” Patrick says, sliding his own hands to Jonny’s waist, clutching fistfuls of his t-shirt. “ _Now, give the people what they want and kiss me._ ”

Jonny does, and the sudden applause makes Patrick laugh into Jonny’s mouth. Jonny loves the taste of it. 

“ _Hi,_ ” he says when Patrick draws back.

“ _Hi,_ ” Patrick grins back at him, and they probably look like goofy idiots smiling dumbly at each other. 

“Okay,” Jonny calls, hands and eyes still on Patrick. “Everyone out.” 

He leans in to kiss Patrick again. “The show is over.”

 

***** 

 

**Epilogue**

 

“Patrick,” Jonny calls. “Come on.” He joins the cable from the laptop to the TV, and flops back onto the sofa. “Pat!”

“I’m waiting on the popcorn,” Patrick shouts back. “Jesus.”

Jonny snorts and kicks his feet up. He looks around and once again marvels at how someone so in love with clean lines and minimalist structure can actually have the worst taste in interior design. None of the furniture matches, the rug around the fire would offend any person with working eyes, and the little Christmas tree is so smothered in tinsel that Jonny wonders if it’s even green. But he loves being here, with Patrick, in his space. Likes it even better now that Patrick’s roommate has already left for the holidays, and they have the place to themselves for the next two days before flying on to Winnipeg.

Jonny helped Patrick choose this small apartment not long after they came back from Italy, where Patrick realised that he liked his family better with a bit of distance between them. And where he realised how much he liked being around a naked Jonny. It’s still South Buffalo, and it’s even a little further to U of B than his family home is, but it’s still his during the week, and theirs on the weekends when Jonny drives down from Montreal.

Patrick’s bare feet slap on the wooden floor as crosses the room, lunging himself over the back of the sofa, just to be an asshole. Jonny gets a knee in the balls and a lapful of popcorn that crunches unpleasantly when Patrick settles on top of him.

“Sorry, babe,” Patrick says, laughing softly in Jonny’s ear. “I’ll kiss it better later. Again.”

“Sumph,” Jonny huffs, and finds something else to complain about. “You burned the popcorn? Do you remember the time I showed you the popcorn button on the microwave?”

Patrick wrinkles his nose. “Do you remember the time you lied to me about not speaking English?”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Still dining out on that?” he says, his tone teasing, and his hands gentle as he brushes a curl behind Patrick’s ear.

“Never go hungry, boo,” Patrick says, smiling back. He’s a holy terror with that smile.

Jonny kisses him, because there’s just never a good reason not to, because he always wants to. His tongue sweeps across Patrick’s fat lower lip, collecting remnants of salt and butter, and delves in further, where Patrick tastes even sweeter. When he pulls back, Patrick’s eyes are dark and interested, and Jonny’s suddenly feeling optimistic about a fourth orgasm today. Maybe a filthy one, painted across Patrick’s beautiful mouth. Jonny drags his thumb across his would be canvas, and sighs when Patrick rocks against him.

“Watching or fucking?” Patrick leers, and Jonny laughs.

“Watching first.” He shifts until Patrick gets a clue and slides to wedge himself between the sofa and Jonny. “Valentina is going to keep mailing me until we do.”

Patrick snorts. “I can’t believe she’s actually writing for a TV show.”

“I can’t believe people actually watch this show,” Jonny grumbles, reaching over to press play on the laptop.

“We good for dinner with all my family before we head off to Christmas in the land that sun forgot?” Patrick asks when the opening credits begin playing on the big TV screen.

“You do know that Buffalo is every bit as cold as Winnipeg right now?” Jonny returns. “And sure. I can deal with your family glaring at me for a couple of hours because I’m making you _emigrate_ to Canada for a week.”

“Just wait until they find out that you're dragging me back to Europe for a year after graduation,” Patrick says, and casually adds, “Josh will probably be at the dinner. You okay with that?” He wriggles under Jonny’s arm, squirming until his head rests on Jonny’s chest. 

Jonny’s never okay with Josh being anywhere near them. They’ve only met a handful of times, and Jonny found the whole keeping a civil tongue thing exhausting. 

_“I think you disliked me from the first time you met me,” Josh said the last time they were forced to share geography._

_“That’s not true,” Jonny protested. “I disliked you long before that.”_

“I’m okay with it,” he tells Patrick, backing his words up with a comforting squeeze to Patrick’s bicep. “As long as you are.”

“I don’t really care,” Patrick says. “I have me a much better boyfriend and best friend now. You’re a twofer, Jonny. So, catch me up with this shit.”

“That’s Felicia,” Jonny says when the impossibly beautiful woman comes on screen. “Valentina’s heroine. And that’s her husband, Luigi, who also happens to be her half twin brother. Wait, I’ll put the subtitles on for you.”

“Half twin?” Patrick says, sitting up a little and reaching for the popcorn. 

“It’s a real thing, apparently. Happened to Sal’s cat.”

“But he’s at least twenty years older than her,” Patrick muses, chewing loudly.

“That’s because Felicia was dead for twenty years, cryogenically frozen in the dome of St. Peter’s until there was a chemical explosion that defrosted her and melted Papa Dino’s face.”

“Man,” Patrick says, fascinated. “That’s awesome. How did I not know this thing existed? What did I tell you about keeping things from me, Jonny? Who’s this dude?”

“The secret King of Finland. And that’s his lovechild, Hans, leader of the Swiss Guard. He’s also the late husband of the Mother Superior, but she doesn’t know that he’s not actually dead. He’s just been abducted by aliens, and is now their main source of communication with earth. It looks like he’s praying, but he’s really transmitting vital information that’s bouncing off satellites, all the way to Mars.”

“Amazing,” Patrick marvels, eyes wide. “And what about this rather strange looking muscular lady? Who’s she?”

“She’s new,” Jonny says, frowning at the TV. “And I also have no idea who this tiny guy is, either.”

Only five minutes later, Jonny knows exactly who both of them are. “Oh my god,” he stutters, horrified. “I’m a _girl_. She made me a _girl._ ”

“Yeah,” Patrick drawls. “You think you have problems, _Gianna_? Have you seen how small Padre Patrizio is? Why is he so short?”

“Genetics,” Jonny says absently. “What the actual fuck. Look at her hair.”

“I don’t know,” Patrick says, smirking. “The butch cut is kind of doing it for me. Even if the weightlifting shoulders are a little intimidating.”

Jonny pinches him. “Everything is intimidating when you’re barely five feet. Jesus, I can’t watch.”

“I can’t look away,” Patrick says. He wriggles around again, elbows jabbing painfully into Jonny’s ribs. “Oh, man, this is nuts.”

To put it mildly. Not much is known about Gianna, who appears to have taken a vow of silence, and spends her days serving coffee to the papal elite while looking towards the camera thoughtfully when anything important is said. Padre Patrizio is much more out there, loud and cheerful, and charming everybody with his quick smile. He’s an architect, commissioned by the pope to rebuild the Sistine Chapel, and quickly, too. That hologram isn’t going to fool people for much longer. Sooner or later, someone is bound to find out that the aliens stole it.

The closing scene features Gianna and Patrizio meeting for the first time. They’re hurrying past each other when they collide, sending Gianna’s purse to the ground.

“Pardon,” Patrizio says, and they bend to pick up the scattered contents. Their eyes meet, their lips part, and they breathe heavily while romantic music starts to play in the background.

“Oh my god,” Patrick gasps, collapsing into peals of hysterics. “This shit is fucking gold.”

Jonny has yet to see the funny side of it.

“Have we met before?” Patrizio asks Gianna, and she bites her lip, looking guilty. “It’s just that you are so beautiful.”

That’s when Patrick absolutely loses it, laughing so hard that he gives himself a stitch and Jonny a painful kick on the shin.

“Hey,” Jonny says, a little offended.

“And you remind me of a girl that I met a few months ago, someone that I spent an illicit night of passion with after too much wine,” Patrizio continues. 

“Ha,” Patrick barks. “There could not be enough wine.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jonny huffs. “She’s not that bad.”

“She has sideburns, Jonny.”

It was a difficult time for me,” Patrizio is saying. “My father was a drug lord, who had wronged a very bad man, and I was being forced to marry his ugly daughter.”

“Hold it,” Patrick says. “That sounds vaguely familiar.” 

Onscreen, Gianna has grabbed her purse back and is storming off, head bowed. Patrizio is frowning after her. “Wait,” he says, bending again to pick up something from the ground. “You dropped this.” Gianna’s walk becomes a run, and the angle switches to a close up of what’s in Patrizio’s hand. The music gets louder as the positive pregnancy is revealed. When the camera pans out again, Patrizio is looking off into the distance, shocked and dismayed.

“Holy hell,” Patrick squeals, bouncing with sheer glee.

“Watch it,” Jonny complains, patting his stomach. “Mind the baby.”

“Which had better be mine,” Patrick cackles, climbing to straddle Jonny’s thighs. His face is flushed, his eyes are bright, and Jonny is so fucked, in the best of ways. “I have so many questions, the most important being, just how ugly is this drug lord’s daughter. I mean, if you’re the pretty one?”

Jonny pulls a face that Patrick grins at. “Aw, don’t pout, babe. I’d still totally do you.”

“I’m blessed to have you,” Jonny says flatly.

“You are,” Patrick snorts. “So, when’s the next episode on? I definitely need all of this in my life. Can Valentina send links for earlier seasons?”

“Probably,” Jonny sighs. “Although you know that things will get worse for Gianna and Patrizio. I can guarantee some sort of blackmail will be involved, and when Valentina eventually runs out of crazy ideas, we are likely doomed to spend eternity together buried in some forgotten tomb.”

Patrick’s face softens, his smile gentling into something fond and affectionate. “Forever, huh?” He lowers himself, elbows pressing into the cushions on both sides of Jonny’s head.

Jonny leans up to kiss him, light and closed mouthed. “After we die gruesomely.”

“Yeah,” Patrick whispers, his lips brushing against Jonny's. “But. Together, forever. I like that part.”

Jonny pulls him closer.

*Roll Credits*


End file.
